


Leave a Light On, If You're Able

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Bottom Will Graham, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light BDSM, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Season/Series 03, Punishment, Rules, Top Hannibal Lecter, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 21:10:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17567993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Will nods, once. "I looked at you and I hated what I saw. How could this man, this beautiful, brilliant man, be brought so low? Pacing about like a tiger in a zoo. I was furious with you for turning yourself in. I was angry with myself for falling for the trap. And all I could think, when you were late, was that if they'd caught you, I'd fall for it all over again." His eyes flash towards Hannibal, dark, low-lidded. "They wouldn't even have to try. They'd catch both of us, and I was pissed off because you owe me more than that."





	Leave a Light On, If You're Able

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Monsters" by Shinedown which is such a Hannigram song, highly recommend.  
> This fic idea wouldn't leave me alone, and it's not even close to what my muse original planned, but ain't that just the way.

Hannibal can sense the heaviness in their home when he returns. He sighs, inwardly, shrugging off his coat and hanging it up in the closet by the door. He sheds his jacket as well, folding it over one arm. From the kitchen, scents of cooking fish, sharp with lemon and rosemary, waft towards him, and his mouth waters.

He goes towards it, smiling when he sees Will in the kitchen, busying himself with checking the fish in the oven. He straightens – Hannibal isn’t fool enough to think he's not aware of his presence – and goes to a bowl of mashed potatoes, idly stirring, and lifts a finger covered in it to taste, letting out a soft, pleased sound at the flavor.

Hannibal turns away and goes upstairs, shedding his shoes, hanging his jacket up along with his waistcoat. He undoes his tie and folds it over the back of a chair, unbuttons his cuffs and rolls them to just above his forearms, and undoes the top two buttons, pulling his collar loose. He takes off his socks and slides his feet into a pair of warm, black slippers, and runs a hand through his hair.

When he goes back downstairs he finds Will plating their meal – a large, beheaded fish for them each, the skin looks crisp and blackened, the exposed neck of the fish showing thick, pink flesh. Salmon, if he were to guess from the smell, although he wouldn't be surprised if Will had managed to catch something he cannot identify on sight. With each fish comes a serving of mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus, the green stalks thickly covered with buttery dressing and flakes of chili.

Will brings the plates to the dining room without a word, not even looking in Hannibal's direction. Hannibal sighs again, the weight of Will's silence heavy on his shoulders. Will is upset, anyone who knows him could see that plain as day, and after they managed to find some semblance of domestic harmony, it is a rare occasion when Will does not greet him with at least a smile.

He takes out a bottle of Chardonnay, uncaps it and pours them each a large glass, well over half-full, and brings them to the table as well. Will has set up their place settings modestly, with burgundy cloth placemats, white napkins, forks and knives. Hannibal is at the head of the table, as always, Will on his right.

He sets the wine down and Will sits, head canted just so towards Hannibal to keep him in his periphery. Once Hannibal is seated, he offers Will a smile, and receives a shred of eye contact in reply. Then, he picks up his knife and fork, delicately peeling the fish's skin back from the deep slice down its belly, exposing more of the pink flesh. He works a mouthful from the edge, careful of the bones, and takes a bite.

It is delicious, the fish having taken on the flavor of sharp lemon and rosemary, and he lets out a pleased hum, washing it down with a small sip of the wine. "Wonderful," he murmurs.

At that, Will's mouth twitches up at the barest hint of a smile. He takes his own bite as though to confirm, not trusting Hannibal to simply flatter him, but must find the fish to his liking as well, for he takes a second bite not long after.

He makes a quiet noise, takes a drink of wine, his mouth turning down at the corners when he sets the glass down. "I suppose it's the price I pay for making fish," he says, his tone carefully neutral. Hannibal tilts his head. "I prefer red."

"I have a bottle of Rioja, if you'd prefer," Hannibal replies mildly. He has never, after all, denied Will his tastes.

Will shakes his head, sighing. His mood is black, and it colors his eyes the same shade as the depths of the oceans, giving nothing away. There are dangerous thinks lurking behind his irises.

Those eyes move, skate over Hannibal's hands and exposed forearms, linger on the age-old scars on his wrists from Matthew Brown. Up, further, to his biceps, his exposed neck. Then, his face, and Hannibal meets his gaze steadily. Will's eyes drop, and he takes another bite without a word.

It is a delicate thing, approaching Will when he's like this. An equal chance exists that he will overcome whatever has made him feel so grim, and after a while he will smile, and reach out, eager to have Hannibal touch him. The same chance exists that he will be cold for the entire evening, and retire to his room, closing and locking the door behind him. They have two bedrooms in this safehouse, though Will makes seldom use of his separate space, preferring the warmth and company of Hannibal in his bed.

Hannibal swallows back a sigh, turning his attention to their meal once more. It's a fine offering – the potatoes are whipped to an airy, buttery taste, the spiciness of the chilis offsets the sharp flavor of the asparagus, and of course, the fish is delicious. Will has always been a little more gifted at preparing the food he gets himself.

"I trust your day was pleasant," Will says after another sip of wine, his eyes carefully fixed anywhere except Hannibal. It makes Hannibal ache, desperate for a glimpse of the prowling creature that exists in Will's chest. It has been months since the fall, and they have achieved harmony here, in a little house on the borders of a town that pays as little attention to them as they do to it. When Hannibal hunts, he goes far away so as not to draw attention to them.

Hannibal nods. He had taken a job at one of the local butchers, which had made Will laugh when he'd first shared that news. Their meals consist of beef and pork and lamb and fish as often as they consist of the other, other white meat.

"Uneventful," Hannibal replies. Will nods, and wraps a piece of skin around a forkful of potatoes, eating in silence. "And yours?"

"Fine," Will replies. He works in the town as well, at the local bookshop with an older man who will likely not see the next turn of the decade. Will doesn't talk about that man much, but Hannibal has met him on a few occasions. He's a pleasant enough gentleman, one of those types who has lived too long and seen far too much to care about what other people get up to in their daily life – a refreshing change of pace, Hannibal is sure, for Will.

Will is silent for a moment more, and then he says, forcibly calm, "Was there much traffic on your way home?"

Hannibal pauses, and then hides his smile in his glass of wine. _Oh._ He eyes the clock on the mantlepiece. Even counting his time spent changing and the little while they have been eating for, it was past seven when he arrived home.

They have rules, now, and boundaries, strictly set up – mostly on Will's end, but Hannibal is happy to oblige. He has suffered for more for far less reward.

"I was caught behind a farmer for a few miles," he replies. He understands, now, why Will is upset. It is one of his rules: unless they are going somewhere else, or unless given prior warning or told of a hunt, Hannibal is to be home no later than seven at night. At first, Hannibal suspected it was because Will wanted to keep an eye on him, but after several months together he has come to realize that, perhaps, Will simply enjoys his company, and is gluttonously possessive of it. The mornings, the evenings, and the weekends are dedicated to Will. "On the single-lane road. Unfortunately I could not pass him until he turned into his field."

Will presses his lips together, absorbing that information, but Hannibal can tell it does not placate him. Nor should it. Hannibal has long moved past the childish desire to disobey Will for the sake of his curiosity. It has come to the point where it hurts them both, betrayal an emotion that all-too-easily rises up in them when either one is not obeyed.

Hannibal has rules too, and Will has not broken a single one. Yet. Hannibal doubts he ever will, unless he's feeling particularly petulant, and the risk of punishment outweighs the satisfaction of getting under Hannibal's skin.

Will nods to himself, and swallows hard enough that his throat clicks. A fine tremor runs down his arms, whitening his knuckles, and Hannibal sets his knife down and reaches out to him only to have Will flinch and pull away.

"You were thirteen minutes late, Hannibal," he says, and in his voice is yearning, is anger, is a deep, deep worry. "Thirteen fucking minutes."

Hannibal presses his lips together, his fingers curling just shy of Will's placemat. "My darling, forgive me."

"It's not about forgiving you," Will snaps. There's tension in his jaw, and he shows his teeth, sucks in a breath and glares down at their meal. For this is the truth – Will is worried, always worried, about Hannibal. He clings to routine so that he doesn't lose his mind. "A lot can happen in thirteen minutes."

Hannibal shouldn't smile. Will is in distress, and Hannibal reacting with humor would only put him in a fouler mood. So he presses his lips together and sighs through his nose, and pulls his hand back, taking up his knife.

"I should have called," he says. "I apologize."

Will lets out a quiet, exasperated sound, setting his silverware down and running his hands through his hair. "I can't blame you for getting caught behind a fucking tractor, or wagon, or whatever the Hell it was," he snaps. "It's not your fault."

"But you were worried for me," Hannibal replies. "Once I realized I would be late, it would have been polite to call ahead and let you know. And I apologize, for not doing so."

Will sighs, and rubs a hand over his mouth, his shoulders curling in and his eyes closing in a slow blink. "Well," he says, tiredly, "just…remember that, in future."

Hannibal smiles, and when he reaches for Will again, he is monumentally glad that Will doesn't flinch, that he allows Hannibal to cover his hand gently, fingers curling and squeezing. "I will, darling," he replies, and Will nods again, straightening up. They return their attention to their meal, and Hannibal is glad to see that Will's mood seems to have improved somewhat. He is not the kind of man to willfully hold onto dirty laundry after the subject is settled – there's too much bad blood under the bridge between them to add new hurts to it. If they did, the water would rise, and they would both drown.

But he is not a fool, either. Will is not a creature of petty arguments, but he is also not one to let imbalanced slights go unanswered for. Hannibal can expect some sort of punishment for his crime, and while he is not eager to bear them, he will, for the sake of his beloved.

They finish their meal with light conversation. Will drinks all of his wine and when they are clearing their plates away, Hannibal returns the bottle to the fridge and brings out a red instead. Will smiles at the sight of it, pleased by Hannibal's mindfulness, and rewards him with a brief brush of their shoulders, their hands, when he takes his glass.

They retire to the living room, which is a modest space, and a dark one, with thick curtains to keep in the heat that are almost always drawn, blocking out sunlight. The lights are low, the couches a dark, black leather, the carpet a deep red. The walls, though painted white to counteract the dark furniture, are covered at one wall with a large bookshelf, the fireplace framed by slate. It is an intimate, oppressive space.

Will sits, sighing as he sinks into the thick cushions, his knees spread and one hand resting on his thigh, his other elbow on the armrest. He regards Hannibal coolly, sipping his wine, and Hannibal gives him a small nod before he takes his seat on the other couch, so that they're facing each other.

They are quiet, for a time, shedding the person suits they wear for the outside world. Hannibal waits, one leg folded over the other, watching Will. It is a subtle change, when it comes over him, but one Hannibal has always watched with rapt attention. The slight lowering of his shoulders, the slackening of his jaw, the subtle fade of creases at the corners of his eyes. The way his gaze darkens, and he shows his teeth a little more often. An animal, a creature of instinct and want; by God, he is beautiful to witness.

Finally, Will swallows, and sets his wine glass on the little table on the other side of the armrest. "Do you know what I think about, when I get worried?" he asks.

Hannibal tilts his head. "I'm sure a great many things," he replies.

Will's lips twitch up at the corners, his nostrils flare. "Mostly I think about what you looked like, in a cell," he says. "A cage. I think about how angry I was."

"Angry?" Hannibal repeats. Satisfied, yes, longing, surely, but he doesn't remember seeing anger in Will when they'd spoken between the glass.

Will nods, once. "I looked at you and I hated what I saw. How could this man, this beautiful, brilliant man, be brought so low? Pacing about like a tiger in a zoo. I was _furious_ with you for turning yourself in. I was angry with myself for falling for the trap. And all I could think, when you were late, was that if they'd caught you, I'd fall for it all over again." His eyes flash towards Hannibal, dark, low-lidded. "They wouldn't even have to try. They'd catch both of us, and I was pissed off because you owe me more than that."

Hannibal presses his lips together, and he nods.

Will sighs, and tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling. The arch of his neck is an enticing lure and Hannibal sits forward, both feet on the floor, his elbows on his knees and his wine cradled in both hands. "Will," he says, and Will huffs, straightening again, "I would never let them take me alive again."

"That doesn't -." Will snarls, and stands. "That's not what I fucking want to hear. I want to hear that they won't _find you,_ Hannibal. I want to hear that you're being _careful_ , that I don't have to worry about shit like this!"

"Darling, I am careful," Hannibal says. He sets his wine down, sensing that the chances of this becoming physical far outweigh his ability to talk Will down. He stands as well and Will stalks towards him, fisting his hands in the front of Hannibal's shirt. He cups Will's neck and draws him close, accepts Will's kiss when Will tilts up for it, biting his lower lip hard enough to sting. "I would never let them take you. They won't find us."

Will pulls back, breathing out harshly, his eyes all-black now. His hands flatten, and tremble over Hannibal's heart.

Hannibal's fingers curl in his hair, gently making him lift his head again. "I love you, Will," he says. "I love you more fiercely than anything in this world. There is not a single moment when you are not in my thoughts, a single day when I do not wake up knowing I am the happiest man to live, with you."

Will breathes out, sets his teeth on edge, and steps back, out of Hannibal's reach. "Sit down," he commands, and Hannibal obeys, settling into place on the couch again. "Stay."

Then, he leaves, towards the kitchen. Hannibal sighs, smoothing the wrinkles of his shirt, and looks up when Will returns. He has a small blade in his hand, no larger than a pocket knife or longer than his forefinger. Hannibal blinks, and looks up at him as Will sets the knife down on the armrest, and pushes the sleeve of his sweater up to bare his forearm.

"Thirteen minutes," he says. The skin on his arm is tanned from their foray through Cuba before settling here, but between the smattering of dark hair is a ladder of thin, white cuts on the side of his arm. "Thirteen cuts."

"Will," Hannibal breathes, and shakes his head. His fingers curl, his upper lip lifts in a growl. "No."

"That's the price, Hannibal," Will says tightly. He kneels, and braces his elbow against Hannibal's knee, arm folded across so his hand flattens over his other knee. He reaches for the knife and holds it out. "You've known it as long as I have."

Hannibal shakes his head again. "No," he replies sharply. Will meets his eyes, steady and determined. He presses his lips together, tightens his grip on the knife, and breathes out. Hannibal can tell what he intends to do and his hands snap to Will's, holding the knife tightly so Will can't do it himself. " _No_."

"There have to be consequences for your actions," Will says, teeth gritted. He glares at Hannibal from under his wild hair, dark-eyed. Then, he laughs, the sound cutting and cruel. "Don't tell me you don't still think about seeing me bleed."

Hannibal swallows. "Will, I -." Will's chin lifts, one brow arching up, and Hannibal sighs, and swallows. "I take no pleasure in seeing you hurt."

Will smiles. "Liar." It's affectionate. "You just prefer it when it's your design, not mine."

Hannibal shakes his head, a strange desperation seizing him. "Please," he whispers. Will blinks, and his hand goes slack, and he straightens. "Anything else."

Will's head tilts slowly, his expression smoothing out to one of careful calculation. Then, he breathes out, eyes dropping to the knife, and folds it back into its handle before he sets it to one side. The knot of tension in Hannibal's stomach unwinds suddenly at the action, and he goes weak with relief.

Will lets out a quiet, desperate sound, and drops his head to his hands, knuckles white as he tugs at his hair. "I don't know what else I can do," he confesses. "I don't like hurting you, I can't outlast you if I decide to try your patience."

He sounds utterly helpless, and Hannibal cannot resist him a moment longer. He slides to his knees in front of Will, embracing him tightly as Will shivers, and buries his face in Hannibal's neck. Oh, his sweet Will, still so tender despite everything Hannibal has done to him. Maybe because of it – like adding salt to caramel, the hurts and the horrors make the sweet moments that much more potent.

Will's hands flatten on his back, over the raised scar of the Verger brand, and his nails dig in. Hannibal has lost almost all sensation there, but he feels the pressure of Will's hands, feels the drag of his claws as they rake down. He closes his eyes, tugs on Will's hair, and kisses him deeply. The red wine has overridden most of the flavor of their meal, Will tastes syrupy, sweet.

They part for air and Hannibal presses his forehead to Will's, his eyes closed. "I know it's a paltry offering," he murmurs, "but even knowing what you would do pains me greatly." For it is not lost on him, what Will means: if Hannibal were caught, for every minute, Will would cut. And keep cutting. Until there was nothing left. The thought of a world without Will makes him feel as cold as the grave, something forever-denied him behind the bars of a cell.

Will swallows. "I feel weak," he says, quiet, worshipful. "Like I'm made of glass."

"You are oceans and steel, my love," Hannibal replies. Will trembles in his arms, warm, and Hannibal feels a hollow ache in him, as if he is embracing a shell. Will is ivory, is stone, hallowed halls and sea caves and Hannibal only finds peace inside him.

Will lifts his head, his hands sliding up to cup Hannibal's face, and draws him into another kiss. It's chaste, but passionate, the press of his lips warm and soft and Hannibal aches, aches deeply, for more of it. He pulls Will to him, kneels up and pushes Will to the ground. Will allows it – everything he does is concession, a fisherman offering bait because he knows how hungry the fish are. His thighs spread and Hannibal covers him, cups his nape and kisses him, their lips parting as Will clutches at his shoulders, digs in with his nails.

Hannibal pulls back, kissing at Will's exposed neck, the longing in him placated when Will shivers and lets out a sweet, eager sound. His hands turn gentle, petting up through Hannibal's hair, and Hannibal turns his head, catches Will's exposed forearm and kisses over the scars. One for each, and there are so many. Each minute Will ached for him and Hannibal was not there to quell his dark thoughts. If Will bore a scar for every one, he would be more wound than man.

Hannibal's eyes close, his hand tightens around Will's arm, he bows his head and shivers. "Don't leave me," he says.

He hears the brush of Will over the carpet as he shakes his head. "I won't."

He arches up, and Hannibal smiles, continuing his course. He pushes at Will's sweatshirt and t-shirt beneath, exposing his stomach up to the scar along his belly, and kisses that mark as well. Will lets out a soft whine, his hand tightening in Hannibal's hair, but allows Hannibal to press his arm to the floor by his head.

Will is wearing dark slacks, the band of them slung low at his hips, just a little too large for him. Hannibal curls his fingers in the edge of them, kisses at his stomach, and tugs down. Will digs his heels, lifts his hips to let him do it. They don't go easily, but they go, tugging down to his thighs along with his underwear so Hannibal can mouth at his cock. Will is divine, here, the scent of him overpowering Hannibal's sensitive nose. He loves the taste of Will, every part of him. If it was the kind of gift Will could give more than once, he would melt Will's thighs from the bone, bury them in his mattress so he could always sleep between them, and feast for days on his sweet flesh.

Will sucks in a breath, lashes fluttering, head tilted back as Hannibal swallows him down, feels him thicken and fill in his mouth until it's a task to take all of him. Hannibal seals his lips tight, sucking harshly at the head of his cock, cheeks hollowing as Will tugs on his hair and moans, hips jerking up to seek more of the hot wetness of Hannibal's mouth.

" _Fuck_ ," he breathes, chest heaving, stomach sinking in as Hannibal sinks down, so slowly, until Will's cockhead hits the back of his throat. He sighs, pushes further, muscles spasming in reflex. Will's knees bend, thighs clutching at Hannibal's shoulders, as Hannibal uses his free hand to cup Will's balls, rolling them gently in his fingers and pushing a knuckle just behind them, where he knows Will is sensitive to pressure.

Will's breath hitches, he fights his arm free so he can cling to Hannibal's head with both hands, lifting his head so he can watch as Hannibal sucks him down again. It is a decadent feeling, having Will tremble for him, tasting his desire and knowing he was the one to cause it. Hannibal is a possessive man, viscerally satisfied at being the one to sate Will's hungers, whatever form they take.

He sinks down again until his nose is buried in Will's pubic hair, and Will sighs, eyes closing and head dropping back as Hannibal sucks him, long brushes of his tongue working up Will's shaft, and then back down. He swipes his tongue through the slit at Will's head, growls at the sharp taste of him, saliva flooding his mouth, stomach clenching with hunger. He wants to be inside Will, wants to flood him and fill him and wash away all those dark thoughts he has.

His fingers slip down, to where Will is tight and dry, brushing over his entrance. Will tenses, breath catching, his fingers curling in Hannibal's hair. He sits up, abruptly, and tugs Hannibal off him, up into a kiss. When they part, Will is breathless, eyes black, and his thumb drags tenderly along Hannibal's sore bottom lip.

"Is that what you want?" he asks.

Hannibal licks his lips, swallows, and nods. "I need you, Will," he replies.

Will blinks, slowly, tilts his head and arches a brow. "Here?" he asks, and one hand sinks down to his lap, between his legs. Hannibal's fingers clench, one on Will's hip, the other in the carpet, and he fights back the outraged snarl he wants to make. He wants to touch Will, he wants to be the only person to touch Will, for the rest of their lives.

But he nods, and says, "Here."

Will bites his lower lip, leans in for another kiss, and nods his head towards the couch. "Sit," he says. "On the floor."

Hannibal obeys, both of them shifting so that he's sitting with his back to the couch, and Will pulls his slacks and underwear off, and Hannibal undoes his suit pants, sliding them down his hips along with his underwear, his cock a deep red and leaking at the tip already. Will smiles, and climbs into his lap, cupping Hannibal's face with large, gentle hands.

He kisses, deep and long, ruts forward so his cockhead smears along Hannibal's shirt. Will is a possessive man, too, and knows the power of spreading scent. Hannibal breathes in, tastes his arousal, his hunger when Will kisses him, and again, before one hand leaves Hannibal's face and Will takes one of Hannibal's from his hip, sucking his forefinger into his mouth.

He pulls it out, and leans forward, guiding Hannibal's touch to his hole. Hannibal clutches at him with his free hand, holding Will still, and wets him there, before he sinks in to the first knuckle. Will's jaw clenches, his lashes flutter and he sighs, kisses Hannibal's neck, ruts forward and back onto his finger, encouraging Hannibal to press deeper.

"We do this my way," he growls, and Hannibal nods, breathless now. He pushes in a little deeper, watching Will's mouth go slack, his breath sucked in with a harsh noise. " _Fuck_. Another."

"Will," Hannibal says, warning.

"What did I just say?" Will demands, showing his teeth. And Hannibal understands – he will hurt Will tonight, one way or the other, and there's not a damn thing he can do about it. Hannibal swallows, pulls his finger out and wets two, before he guides them back in and presses deep. Will moans, shoulders rolling up, hands flexing on Hannibal's shoulders as they slide down and grab. Despite the pain, Will is still hard, masochistic to a fault. He kisses Hannibal's neck, clings to him, and drops one hand to stroke himself as Hannibal does his best to stretch him out.

He growls, kissing at Will's neck and jaw, measuring the rush of his pulse, the sharp scent of arousal in his blood as he presses his fingers into Will. Will's muscles clamp down, fighting him, until Hannibal finds his prostate and touches lightly, and Will's entire body goes lax. He lets out a sweet moan to Hannibal's neck, trembling, his cock twitching against Hannibal's stomach.

He bites – a sharp nip that makes Hannibal snarl. "Now."

Hannibal knows better than to argue.

He pulls his fingers out, licks his palm, and smears his saliva over the head of his cock, trying to get himself as wet as possible before he penetrates Will. He presses his cockhead to Will's hole and Will, immediately, pushes back, taking him in one single thrust. Hannibal gasps, jaw clenching – it's too dry, it hurts a little, and Will flinches and growls, teeth gritted and nostrils flared wide.

"Will," Hannibal breathes, embracing him tightly. Will shakes his head sharply, hand flexing on Hannibal's shoulder. He closes his eyes, sighs, slackens, and rolls his hips, forcing Hannibal's cock to stretch him, force his muscles to yield, and Hannibal can't help letting out a soft growl, for Will is so warm on the inside, clinging to him so tightly.

Will rises just a little, pushes back down, his hand working quickly over his cock to make himself spasm around Hannibal. He is shaking, shoves his forehead to Hannibal's and kisses him harshly. "Unbutton your shirt," he demands, and Hannibal obeys, almost ripping the buttons from their holes in his haste, until his chest and belly is bare. Will rocks his hips again, drives his cock against Hannibal's bare skin, shivers and bites his lower lip.

Hannibal can smell blood, feel a little bit of wetness around the base of his cock as Will rears up and drives down again, and it aches, he doesn't want Will to hurt like this, this is an act meant for pleasure – but he cannot deny Will is pleased, his lashes low and his hair curling with sweat.

Will's cock twitches in his hand, his jaw clenches, and he lifts his eyes to meet Hannibal's. His other hand cards through Hannibal's hair, grips tight, and he moans when Hannibal cups his thighs, helps him lift up and sink down again. "Fuck, right there," he whispers, weakly, and Hannibal's breath hitches, his fingers curl and he does it again, trying to mimic the same angle. " _Yeah_ , that's it, that's good, that's…"

He falls silent, gritting his teeth and pushing his forehead to Hannibal's jaw. Hannibal closes his eyes, breathes Will in deeply, keeps going. If this is what Will wants, Hannibal will give it to him. He digs his heels against the carpet and fucks upwards, holding Will still as he moves, and it's easier now, Will's body slack with desire, eagerly welcoming. He's so warm, desperate, his hand stroking his cock with harsh tugs, smearing precum down his shaft to ease the way.

" _Hannibal_ ," he moans, gasping, tugging on Hannibal's hair. "Fuck, _please_."

Hannibal growls, incensed, and clutches at Will, thrusting as deep and forcefully as he's able. He can't move as much in this position, which he knows is Will's design, and Will is so tight, sinfully warm, it burns Hannibal's sensitive flesh.

"That's it, baby," Will breathes, nosing at Hannibal's jaw, kissing open-mouthed over his thrumming pulse. He's drawling, lost accent coming through so his words become slurred. "Can feel how bad you need it."

And he does. He needs Will, to the bone. He clings to Will, bares his teeth against Will's neck, snarls as the heat in his stomach sinks, grows thorns, clawing its way out. Will gasps, tightening up as Hannibal grabs his hips and shoves him down, coming with a harsh sound inside of Will. Will's body spasms, he hisses in pain and goes still, letting Hannibal fill him until it drips out around the base of Hannibal's cock.

Will growls, snapping his teeth together, and groans when Hannibal licks his palm and joins Will's hand on his cock, stroking him tight and quick. He is trembling, feels unable to catch his breath, overwhelmed by the scent and feeling of Will around him, on top of him. Will's thighs clench around his hips, his body rolls, and Hannibal digs in with his nails.

"Don't move," he commands. Will shivers, settling with a soft, weak moan. His body spasms around Hannibal's softening cock, too sensitive, they both are, but it's one of Hannibal's rules: Will's invitation is his to make, but Will's body is Hannibal's, just as Hannibal's is his. And he knows how much Will likes to come when he's stuffed full and wet. He slides his hand to where they're joined and works a finger in alongside, and Will trembles, moaning weakly against his neck.

"Please," he breathes, and tugs on Hannibal's hair, tilts his head to one side to expose his neck for Hannibal's teeth. He doesn't need to ask – Hannibal growls, and bites down, gently enough that it will not break skin, but he knows it hurts. Will moans, going lax, surrendering to Hannibal's teeth, and Hannibal bites him again when he comes, spilling thick and wet over Hannibal's stomach and chest.

He collapses with another harsh sound, and Hannibal smiles, kissing over the bruise he left, before he pulls his finger out of Will and lets go of his cock, wipes his hands on Will's sweater, and cups his face for a kiss. Will meets him eagerly, shivering in the aftershocks, the clench of his muscles forcing Hannibal out of him and a thick trail of seed following, staining Hannibal's clothes beneath him.

Hannibal pulls back, sighs and smears a finger through the mess, raising it to the low light. It has an undeniably pink sheen, and he shakes his head, wiping it off on Will's sweater again.

"You are a determined soul, my love," he says, heavy with disapproval.

Will rolls his eyes, nuzzles Hannibal's cheek and smiles, unapologetic. "Mutual pleasure," he murmurs. "Mutual pain. Sating what we want and need from each other. Of course I'm determined."

"And cruel," Hannibal adds.

Will's smile softens, his hands sliding up Hannibal's dirty chest, to rest on his collarbones. "And cruel," he agrees, and tilts his head. He sighs, eyes dipping down, a soft crease forming between his brows as he eyes the knife at their side, before it's smoothed away. "Old habit."

Hannibal smiles, fondly, and lifts his chin, silently asking for another kiss. "I love you," he says, plainly, and Will's smile is bright enough to rival the sun.

"I love you too," he replies, as soft and sweet as he has ever been. He leans in, their foreheads resting together, and settles in Hannibal's lap, heavy and warm. He tastes of wine, and of bliss, when Hannibal kisses him again.

Hannibal smiles when they part, and gestures to the mess they made. "Shall we clean up?"

Will grins, and nods, standing and helping Hannibal to his feet. They gather their clothes and head upstairs, dumping everything in the hamper by Hannibal's bedroom door.

"Oh, Hannibal?" Will calls, as Hannibal heads to the bathroom. He pauses, and turns to see Will smiling at him. "Make sure to call ahead from now on." Though his tone is light, his eyes are dark, words steel-lined behind his smile and sharp teeth. "I'm not as patient when it comes to mistakes as you are."

Hannibal grins at him, and holds out his hand. Will takes it, and Hannibal pulls him into a kiss. "I will never disobey you again, my love."


End file.
